A Spark in the Dark
by Webdog177
Summary: Ruby reflects on her ghostly compatriot in the safety of a Bonfire. [RWBY / DARK SOULS crossover]
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing

A/N: This came from a prompt in the WR Discord for, essentially, a 500-1200 word flashfic with RWBY/Dark Souls crossover elements. Written in a minimalist fashion, everything else was open to your own creativity. I don't normally write in this way, but thought it turned out okay.

Enjoy.

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A Spark in the Dark

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You never truly get used to the dark.

Eyes adjust to shadows, footing becomes fleet and sure, and fingers more nimble and dexterous. But humans are inherently creatures of light - they crave the illusion of safety, and the warmth it provides. And the Dark is home to others not altogether human.

You never _truly_ gets used to the dark, after all.

It was those rare times when one could bathe in the light - and the warmth those slight embers provide - and gain respite from the Dark and the Horrors that call it home, that make the danger worth it.

The crack of steel on flint. A short, shuddering spark in the Dark. The flare from the fire and heat licks your face; it's enough to keep away the Horrors… but they will come back, slithering up from their holes to resume their silent vigil, as they always did when you strayed away from the Bonfire.

You sit, the assurance of safety from the fire steeling your nerves, and curl your arms around your legs, tucking your knees into your chest. You take a deep breath of salt and decay and death, only barely masked by the musky smell of burning wood. You're tired; so very tired. But you know there is no way to move but forward. There is nowhere to go but down - down into the dark, dark of the shadows.

With nothing but the Horrors and the fire to light your way.

As the air around you shimmers and shines with the presence and safety of fire, you feel your belly writhe and twist with the familiar knot of hope; with hope that she will come.

 _Ah… there she is..._

As if she was a mist rolling in from the mountains on a cold morning, she appears. Blurry, like one would see through the haze of sleepiness, and ghostlike, the apparition of a girl appears before you. Her snowy white hair not altogether unheard of, especially with the constant presence of magic in the air, and her skin is pale, the girl looks as she always did. Drawn, haggard, as tired as you feel; her phantom rapier clattered soundlessly to the stone floor as she collapsed beside you, her pale eyes searching your face hungrily, as though she hadn't seen you for weeks.

She hadn't, though time was a harsh master in the Dark.

You smile wanly, forcing a small shake of your head in response to her silent question. You have made no progress since your last meeting, and it had begun to eat away at you, gnawing at your spirit like a poison. It is these short, fleeting glimpses you caught of each other, by the light of the Bonfire, that keep you sane - that keep you going.

You don't even know the sound of her voice or the touch of her ghostly fingertips on your forearm. You don't even know anything about her, save for that little you can gleam from your soundless interactions in the flickering light. But you take comfort in the fact that she is there, somewhere, fighting the same fight you are; suffering the same Horrors.

You are the same. Both trapped in an endless maze of death and fear, with on the slight sliver of hope the other brings to you, every time the fire is lit.

Its enough to make you press on, through the endless Horrors and Dark of the world.

"I never said thank you," you say, canting your head to look at her. She watches you silently, her eyes sliding over your face, as though it might be the last time she ever gets the chance to do. You can almost imagine the color of the sky in her silvery pupils, and it reminds you of clouds and sunlight.

"For being here for me." You continue, your voice barely a whisper. You know she can't hear you, as you never hear anything from her, no matter how much you have grown accustomed to her lips move around imagined syllables. But you take comfort in the idea of her listening all the same. "I wanted to thank you. I don't think I would have made it as far if you weren't here with me."

She blinks again, her brow furrowing slightly. You have the feeling she doesn't know exactly what you said, but the tired smile that creeps across her lips a moment later settles any lingering doubt in your mind. Her lips move soundlessly, but you can imagine her reply,

" _Thank you, as well, for being here for me."_

After all, you are the same.

"You know… I came up with a name for you." You say suddenly. Her eyebrows lift to her bangs, and she tilts her head to the side in question. "Well, I came up with it a while ago… but never said anything. But, the more I think about it, the more I think of it when thinking of you."

She stares at you, waiting patiently as you lick your lips and point directly to her face.

"Weiss." You say. "You name is Weiss. Is… that okay?"

She blinks again, this time, her lips moving slowly as if trying out unfamiliar sounds.

" _Weiss,"_ she forms the words, and then tries again. " _Weiss."_ She smiles, able to sound out the name, and then nods, smiling softly. You are surprised, then, when she points back to you and her lips form a distinct, " _Rose."_

You were just named, you realize. And for the emblem that is pinned to your cloak. You can't help but smile, and tilt your head down to rest on your knees. "I like that name. Thank you Weiss."

The smile - tired and brittle on her pale, sallow face - was enough to drive away the fear and despair eating away at you, and instil the smallest ember of hope in your breast.

Because, after all, you and she are the same.

"I'll see you at the next Bonfire, then." You say, climbing to your feet and brushing off your skirt. She does likewise and sends a last, lingering look your way, memorizing every bit of your face before she leaves. You step forward, reaching out to brush your fingertips across her ghostly face. "Don't worry, Weiss," you say, "We'll see each other again. Just keep thinking of the sun, and you'll find your way."

Weiss' lips twitch and she nods silently, her face blurring as she steps away from the safety of the fire. Moments later, she is gone, and you are alone.

"After all," You say, gathering your weapons and flask. "We are the same."

And, with a final look at the drying embers of the Bonfire, you enter the Dark once more.

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A Spark in the Dark

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Thanks for reading :D


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I was actually surprised by the positive response I got from the first chapter. It was meant as a standalone thing where I tried out a new style of writing - more minimalist than I normally do - and I was generally pleased with how it turned out. Most people also encouraged me to continue it, at the very least allowing Ruby and Weiss to make use of Soapstone to communicate. After a while, I finally decided to devote an hour or so to do just that.

Enjoy.

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 **Embers in the Dark**

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It was fate, perhaps, that whenever you are accustomed to doing things one way, things change to once again catch you off guard. To leave you flat footed.

You spend days, weeks, _months because who can tell in the Dark_ , watching the Horrors creep and crawl, learning when to walk and when to run, and when to jump and when to hold your ground and when to retreat, scurrying away with your life as much as your dignity, to the flickering warmth of the Bonfire.

Sometimes, even with how prepared you think you are, the Dark holds one more trap, one more venomous creature, one more pitfall to claim and end you.

And there is always one more bloodstain on the wall. A grisly reminder of those who had gone before you, and those who had failed.

You only hope - _pray_ \- whose blood you see, both dry and wet, the color of dirty copper, that it was not hers.

But it would all be worth it in the end. You believe that with your whole being. You could feel it, when every step you take, see it with every Horror you end - only to return from the dark holes when you retreat to the safety of the fire - and taste it with every breath you take of the dank, putrid and deceased air; you know it will be worth it.

Just to see the sky again, in the end.

 _And then, finally…_

And, as if answering your prayers, you see it, glittering like the midday sun in the gloom. You scramble over, your hands and knees bloodied in the stagnant muck and grime, clutching it to your breast like a lifeline. Like it was a one-of-a-kind treasure, entreated to you from a king or a deity. For all it meant to you, it was just as well.

Your treasure in hand, you push yourself up out of the dirt and, a feeling of dread that some _thing_ will appear out of the Dark and take you and your spoils welling up in your soul, you retrace your steps back to the Bonfire. You clutch your chipped, blunted weapon more tightly than you ever have before, anticipating and _expecting_ resistance, and breath out your anxiety when you finally step into the warmth and the light. You feel your wounds - both superficial and bone deep - close and knit together, few leaving reminders of how you received them; one a misstep into a trap of flame and bludgeon, and more than a few overconfidence in your own fleet of foot.

You would not make those mistakes again.

You breath in the slightly fresher air that shimmered with firelight and retch out the disease and echor that surrounded you for days, and finally collapse to the ground. Your whole _body_ aches; your arms stretched to the point of snapping, your legs torn and pummeled raw, and your body singing with the phantom pain of a thousand injuries; proof that you are alive, yet also proof that you should have died long ago. Proof that something keeps you here, to suffer the Dark alone.

 _Well, not quite alone…_

As if sensing your thoughts, you see the familiar yet still awe-inspiring glint of light that heralds her arrival. She appears like smoke over a silent lake, as always, and slowly coalesces with shape, substance and shade. There is never color, or weight to her, but your mind could fill in the blanks where charcoal and gray tones prevail.

White hair that shimmers like freshly spun silver in the firelight.

Boiled and dyed leather and cloth the color of strawberries and cream, the taste of which you had long forgotten.

Eyes the color of cloudless sky, with the wind blowing through your dirty, lifeless hair.

You could almost smell her, almost hear her whisper if you believe hard enough. It is what keeps you going day after day, week after week, crawling around in the death that makes up your existance.

"You're here," You breath, the feeling of tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You don't even know if you _could_ cry anymore, for if you could, you would have long ran out of tears. "Weiss."

Her name was a song, and you could almost remember what it was like to sing.

Weiss kneels down beside you and reaches up, holding her cloudy hand towards your cheek. You shut your eyes and lean towards the touch, wishing you could feel anything but the lingering sting of cold and death. You wish - with all of your heart - that you can feel the warmth of her fingers, and know it would all be worth it if you could.

But, as always, her hand passes through you, and all you are rewarded with is disappointment.

 _But, this time -_

"Oh! I finally found it!" You say, your cracked and bleeding lips stinging as you grin. You hold your prize out before her, and Weiss' silvery eyes widen with recognition and delight. She fumbles with her weapon - the same sword she always carries - and it rolls away towards the fire, forgotten, as she rummages through her clothing. After a moment, she finds it.

"You still have it," You say, instantly relieved. "Your orange soapstone."

Such a small thing, that should be so important to few people. For its use, it could very well be your very life.

Not wasting any time, you drop to your knees and scribble out words - words you barely recall how to form - on the hard stone.

 **Weiss**

The letters shine like gems on the cold ground, and then fade away like the setting of the sun. You look up to see Weiss staring at the ground, silver eyes unblinking. Her throat bobs once, twice, and she looks up at you, her expression both elated and broken. For the barest moment, you think it did not work, but then she drops down as you did and begins to scrawl out letters of her own. You watch, breath held, as she finally stands and looks at you.

It takes a long moment to tear your gaze away from her equally expectant visage. Her words shimmer before your eyes, brightly at first, as torchlight often flickers to live in the Dark, and then dims enough make out.

 **Rose - I'm here for you. Always**

Your throat constricts, not painfully but just enough for your hand to raise, but you just cover your mouth to stem the pitiful noises of sobbing that assault you - as this was proof, undeniably, that you were not alone, that Weiss was more than a mere fantasy conjured from your fevered and ill mind.

With shaking hands, you manage to carve out a response in the stone.

 **Thank you for everything**

Weiss' eyes slide over the words as they fade into nothingness, and she looks at you, nodding solemnly. Nothing else needed to be said, really. Now there was no room for doubt.

You are here for each other.

It was nice to have that kind of reassurance.

But, while you have the opportunity…

You feel her eyes on your back as you scribble out letter after letter, heart thumping in your chest - proof that you were _alive,_ and that you were still here. When you finish you stand, hands on hips, and send a tired but expectant smile to the girl beside you.

 **What color are your eyes?**

It was her turn, after all.

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 **Embers in the Dark**

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A/N: Finished? Maybe not? White Soapstone next?

Only time will tell.

*** Will work for glomps ***


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: There is a very deliberate and possibly noticeable shift in the writing style and narration about halfway through this chapter. Cookies will be given to whomever points it out successfully. :D

Enjoy.

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 **Flames in the Dark**

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Regaining what was once lost was often much harder than gaining it in the first place.

Perhaps it is the idea that if you lost it once, you were more likely to lose it again. Or maybe it was a mental thing; that because you lost it before you were not worthy of having it a second time, or a third time. And maybe, just maybe, it was because someone - some _thing_ \- kept it away, held just out of arm's reach, like a child taunting a sibling with sweets when safe from their parent's minding eyes.

Then again, gaining and keeping one's humanity - one's _sanity_ \- in the Dark was never easy. If one ever had any at all.

It was the idea, however hazy and vague it was, that you were were once sane, that you were once… _more_ … that keeps you going, in search of yourself. You can feel it, deep down inside of you, with every step you take on crumbling stone, with every moss-covered stone you turn, with every glimpse of light in the dark, murky sky.

With every Horror you ended with a deathly shriek, either from it or from you no one would ever truly know.

You can feel it inside of you, like a living breathing thing, keeping your eyes searching every dark corner and your feet moving day after day, week after week. The memory of your humanity, your sanity, is what keeps your sword sharp and your flask of Estus plentiful.

But it is _her_ that really keeps you going.

It takes months of starving and half dying to finally feel enough of your humanity seep back into your very being; untold days of scrabbling around in the Dark and suffering at the whims of the Horrors to be able to finally return, bleeding and weary, to the Bonfire. You collapse in the warmth, shuddering and shaking. You had run out of Estus long ago, and it had eventually begun to take effect on your body, such as it was.

Over time, your lack of _self_ started to take effect; your skin became sallow, dry and cracked. Your hair limp and stringy. Dirty. You arms and legs thin and not unlike like a corpse's, like they should hold no strength but somehow do. You feel like you should have died long ago, but somehow still keep going.

You feel… used. Spent. Hollow.

But now, with the warmth of the Bonfire enveloping you like a warm blanket and the stirrings of some semblance of Humanity in you, you start to change. It starts in your toes; the feeling of _living_ , something you had forgotten long ago. You ignore the pin and needles crawling up your feet as you wiggle them curiously. It then travels up your feet to your legs, and you gasp as the grey, pallid shade of your skin darken and then fill with color like a painting. You sit, frozen, as life is breathed into your body from your legs to your waist, to your chest and, finally, your head.

You suck in a long, shuddering breath, and cough - hacking and painful. Phlegm and ichor spill out from your dry but now unblemished lips, and you groan aloud in disgust at the taste.

But then you _breathe_. Oh, how you breathe! The air is dank, putrid, and no different from before, but somehow, it is _more_ now. The air feels… alive; the smell is worse, the taste is just as vile on your tongue, and the cold bites at your new skin. But it is more - _you_ are more. You can feel it… you are human.

 _But what about…?_

You shift around, eyes wide. You heart hammers in through chest - a feeling you had almost forgotten - as you search around the fire. She was supposed to be here…

 _There!_

Weiss appears as she always does, in a shimmering curtain of mist and gloom. Her blurry profile filled in with shades of grey, silver and white, and you could see her form shrink noticeably as she takes a moment to accustom herself to the safety of the fire. After a time she looks up from the flickering embers, her eyes - _blue, you know, the color of the cloudless sky_ \- seeking you out as though she expected you to be there.

And then her face lights up, stepping over stones and gouges in the floor gracefully towards you. She reached her hand out to your face, as she always does, and as her ghostly fingertips lift to caress your cheek, you suddenly see it.

The soft light from inside your tunic draws your attention from Weiss' hungry gaze. She notices it too, and it's her curious glance that makes you finally look down and reach into your pocket.

The Soapstone - the one you had scrounged up from the much all those weeks ago - now glowed with a pale white light instead of the familiar orange one. You narrow your eyes, more confused than concerned at the change.

This has never happened before.

Then again, you had never felt so… _human_ before. So… _real_.

Weiss' sudden movement draws your eyes back, and her delight is apparent even as she reaches into her own pockets and digs around, rooting for her own soapstone. When she pulls it out, your eyes widen again.

Struck with inspiration, you drop to your knees and scribble out Weiss' name in the cold stone. The words shine brightly, the color of white-hot fire, and then dim to a more legible glow. You look up to gauge Weiss' reaction.

The girl has already started writing furiously, her face a study in concentration. You watch as she scrawls out letter after letter, shaking her head and erasing a few with the heel of her hand, and then finally nod, standing up to watch you with unwavering eyes. After a long moment you look down as her words wink into existence by your feet.

 **Rose - Step onto my words and think of me**

You blink, confused. You look back up at Weiss, who is simply watching you. She nods encouragingly and you shrug - a very _human_ gesture - as you move you your feet cover the 'step' and 'think' of her sentence. You turn around to look at her, and at once you feel your feet tug out from under you. You gasp, thinking that maybe you had wandered unwittingly into a trap, or that some _Horror_ had managed to slip by the safety of the Bonfire, but before you could react you are surrounded by silvery mist.

The disorientation only lasts a moment, and the mist dissipates easily enough, leaving you dizzy and more than a little concerned. You turn around, hand dropping to the sword at your waist in preparation. The Bonfire is the same; crackling and warm. Safe. The stone archway was still there, looming over you massively, the remains of a once-great cathedral. Your eyes narrow as you complete your turn, and then you finally spot someone else right in front of you. Your heart leaps into your throat as you draw your sword with a whisper of steel and leather -

And then the weapon clatters to the ground through your painfully numb fingers.

It was Weiss. You can feel it deep down inside. She is _there_. She had been there before, of course, in her usual ghostly apparition. But this is different. _She_ is different. She is… more. Like you.

Her hair is spun silver, it shines all the more in the flickering firelight, casting shadows and adding depth to the loose strands. Her leather armor was darker, alternating shades of crimson and matte white, covering her pale - but still noticeably healthy pallor. Her face, from what you could see in the firelight, is still thin... gaunt, but what surprises you is the healthy complexion of her cheeks, and the startling blue of her eyes.

You knew they were blue… but you weren't prepared for _how blue_ _they actually are._ She is as real, and as human, as you. And she is right there in front of you.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach out with your hand-

And pinch your cheek.

"Ouch." You wince, rubbing at your face.

Weiss steps forward, her face full of concern as she reaches up to touch you. You lean forward, knowing instinctively that she would pass through you as she always did.

The suddenness of the touch against your cheek is almost as shocking as the warmth that seems to spread from your cheek straight down to your chest only serves to set in the idea - the proof - that Weiss actually touched you. Not only that, but it was the first time anyone, or anything had touched you since you can remember. At least, a touch that didn't bring pain or disappointment of some kind.

"Your… your real." You say aloud, only now realizing how hoarse and unused your voice really was. You hadn't spoken aloud to anyone, save for a few scant mutterings to yourself in the Dark, in months. You clear your throat as delicately as you can, but all you can focus on is her hand on your face, and her crystal blue eyes.

"Your really real."

"I'm really real." Weiss affirms gently. Her voice is as quiet and unused as your own, but it still sounds like the most beautiful of chiming bells; soft, glass-like, a whisper against the cold, weather-worn stone of the cathedral.

You nod, unable to do anything else but stand there helplessly as Weiss searched your face. Her other hand lifts to touch the other cheek, and suddenly there are tears leaking from your eyes. How long had it been since you cried? You cannot remember - maybe you had never truly cried before. Until now.

"Shh…" Weiss soothes, stepping closer to you. One of her hands leave your cheek and slides around to the back of your head to hold you close. The gesture, simple though it is, affects you more greatly than you expect, and the tears come harder. You press your face into her shoulder and weep. Her scent, clean and fresh and unbloodied, fills your nose. Her warmth seeps through your skin, filling you with a heady comfort. Her voice, soft and benign, drifts into your ears and all you can do is stand there in her arms, and finally come undone.

"You're not alone, Rose." You hear her whisper after a long time. There is a hitch in her chest and you jerk, looking up into her face. There were matching tears running from her blue eyes, and you know that they are for you.

" _We're_ not alone." You add, reaching up to cup her face in your hands. She nods, and leans forward to rest her forehead on yours.

The Horrors may be laying in wait in the Dark, skittering and crawling from their holes. But for now, you are content with the knowledge that they can wait.

For now, you aren't alone.

And that is enough.

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 **Flames in the Dark**

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A/N: As you can probably tell, I took some liberties with certain parts of the game. Namely, the White Soapstones and how they work with summoning. I think, at least in the context of this story, it works how I want it to. This story isn't about the two of them eventually teaming up to challenge a boss - though, I may get there in a future chapter… we'll see (any ideas on which boss?) - it's about not being alone, about someone being there for you by the bonfire in the dark, twisted world of Dark Souls. It was my first real positive impression of the game when I played it, and it's what I wanted to convey from the very beginning. And every chapter has been another step closer to that eventual goal; a clearer way to show Ruby (the player) that there is someone there for her, every step of the way.

***Will work for glomps***

(Especially tasty, cherry-flavored ones)


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sadface

A/N: Bet you all thought this was over and done with, eh? But no! RWBY/Dark Souls lives forever! *(Muahaha~!*

Actually, this little piece of recursive fiction was written by my buddy Adjudicato, who is another avid RWBY fan, Dark Souls aficionado (more than me, honestly) and smut writer (though there is no smut in this. Yet. hah), and was kind enough to allow me to add this to the existing Dark series. To differ from my first three chapters, he decided to do a prequel to Spark in the Dark, from Weiss' point of view. A nice narrative change that reflects Weiss' character as opposed to Ruby.

Though, I did proofread it! If that counts for anything.

Anyway, enough of my rambling.

Enjoy.

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 **A Cinder in the Dark**

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What city was she in? What glorious place had this once been? In these still halls, whose only sparse sounds were the sough of a pitiable wind and the occasional groan of a fellow hollowed husk, she shambled on awkward footing and with a winding gait. Who was she, even? Why was she doing this? She did not know, only that she must. One foot in front of the other. One step after another.

Drip, drip, dripping she heard. Against a nearby wall she stopped, leaned, and then held up the thing gripped so tightly in her right hand. It was heavy with a dead sort of weight, like a fresh cut bought recently from the butcher shop. When had she last been to a butcher to purchase food, or even considered eating? And why, of all things, was she holding an arm?

She had no idea until, looking to her left, she saw the stump that _had_ _been_ her own arm. And then she knew.

"The… fire…" she moaned aloud, leaning away from the wall and resuming her stumbling gait. "The… bon… fire…"

One step after another, one foot in front of the other. The still halls of whatever ruined city she now stumbled through, they were awfully cold. As much so as anything she could recall, and that in itself was woefully little. It bit into her, that awful, silent, _motionless_ cold. Suffused her flesh through to her very bones, gnawing them as if jagged shards of glass. With each step it sank further in, until she was sure the cold would wholly _become_ her.

"Fire…" she moaned again. She picked another spot of wall to lean against, this time sliding down to a seat. The arm tumbled from her grasp to lay on the floor, beautiful and horrible in its shining mail and bloodstained gore. For a moment she looked at it, contemplated it, then recalled why she had stopped at all.

Her fingers were numb and stupid. It felt like trying to learn how to simply move them at all as she searched her knapsack for that wonderful green bottle, within which she knew there would be warmth. Comfort. _Respite_ from the biting, encroaching cold all around. And when she found it, she wasted no time trying to have a swig.

But nothing came for it was empty. Only a single, guttering spark of an ember drifted from within the bottle to light on her outstretched tongue. A single shudder of heat coursed through her, from jaw to toes, and then it was gone.

"Can't stop here…" she grumbled to herself. "I… can't stop… not yet…"

Numb, stupid fingers, clutching like wriggling worms—or so it felt to her as she returned the bottle to its rest. Feet prickling and tingling as she stood on them. Legs fiery and aching, cut and battered and bruised. What had she tangled with, anyway? Try as she might, she could not recall. All that came to mind was that it had not gone well. None of it. If the arm were not proof enough—that very same arm she now picked up again, gripped tightly so as not to lose—then her empty green bottle and nigh entirely broken corse would serve as fine evidence.

Have to go on. It's so close. The fire is safe. The fire is warm. The fire will relieve me. _The fire will restore me_ …

Her lungs burned, and with each ragged breath she could feel something shift wrongly within. A broken rib? Had one of her lungs been flattened or punctured? Horrifying as that thought was, it was also nearly comical now. She was undead. She could not even rely on the final embrace of the earth, the dirt, the _dark_ should her wounds overcome her. All that giving in to it meant was that she would lose another sliver of herself, another tiny bit of her sanity, her being, her everything. And that simply would not do, oh no.

She could not recall her name. She could not recall her origin. She could not even recall what she had once looked like, before the curse had stolen even that from her. Blood meant nothing, for the heat of the fire returned that sanguine ichor to her parched veins. The souls she took from her vanquished foes meant nothing, for, even if she left those behind, they could simply be regathered. All that mattered to her was the ever-dwindling pieces of her self, her identity, which chipped and shrank evermore with each fall, with each return to ash.

"I see you…" she whispered to the sigh of the wind, stumbling through a portcullis now strewn with bodies. Fellow hollows who, unlike her, had relinquished every bit of themselves to the harsh, unforgiving world around them. Their blood caked her thin rapier, lay as spattered brown stains across her tabard. They had not guarded their will to go on, and so she felt no remorse in relieving them of the tiny sparks that yet burned within. In their murderous husk of a state, they were sure to give her no such mercy either.

"I see you…" she mumbled again, staggering further along until, finally, a loose cobblestone grabbed the tip of one of her sabatons and she lost her footing.

With a sudden, violent crash she hit the ground, knocking what little wind there was out of her bosom. That nearly did it. She lost grip of her severed arm and could do little but watch it roll away. Yet, also within her vision was an inexplicably gorgeous view, glimmering and shimmering amid the dark of the portcullis, casting shadows hither and thither along the mossy, blood-spattered walls. Flickering and crackling away as it lapped at the twisted sword dug into its center.

"Bon… fire…" she moaned, and could do no more.

There had once been a nearly violent pride burning within her. She could no longer remember herself, this was so, but she knew that much to be immutable truth. A pride fit to dwarf that of the Great Lords, deliverers of the First Flame. It had seen her through to leaving the asylum, where all undead were left to rot until the end of days. It had served her well to arrive in Lordran. And it still smoldered deep inside her somewhere, she knew. _Had_ to. Elsewise, how could she have come this far, even considering she had lost so much along the way?

Yet, laying on the ruined, dusty, mossy cobbles of this unknown city, in the dark of the portcullis, under the flickering glow of the bonfire so close at hand…

Her pride finally failed her and guttered out. And so, she lay her head on the ground, took a last breath and sighed in a sort of perverse contentment. Maybe this would be the end, but she could at least go along into hollow madness knowing she had achieved much and more. Any number of those odd, shifting, bubbling bloodstains had shown her that. So many others crushed and defeated much earlier than she. So many others who had not come half the way. So many others…

One more time she opened her eyes, wanting a last look at the fire. Why? She could not have said, only that she deeply desired that one last look. Maybe hoping to keep a single memory with her. But she chanced to see another thing, instead, and her breath hitched tight, sudden, _raw_ in her throat at what she saw.

It was little more than a specter cast in the ethereal glow of the bonfire, but she could make out fine details of it nonetheless. The garb was mismatched and hodgepodge, looking like it had been assembled from any number of corpses and fallen hollows—a bent and battered helmet, a fabric gambeson reduced nearly to ribbons, leather boots with more holes that whole pieces. The weapon laying beside it was a faithful, trusty-looking sword of unremarkable design, nicked and bent with overuse. She looked closer, squinted her eyes, and could barely make out the shape of a woman beneath the hodgepodge getup.

Whoever she was, the specter sat with her knees drawn up and hugged tight, shivering slightly and seeming to shake every now and again. Was she crying, perhaps? Had she too given up, or was she yet holding on to just the tiniest sliver of tenacity?

There was something fascinating in that vision, and in it she found herself swelling—ever so faintly—with that pride she had once touted so… well, proudly. She took two deep breaths and rolled onto her right side, pushed with her remaining arm until she came to a sitting position. Oh, but how she ached, how the cold drove all throughout her. Yet she would not give in, not just yet. So she stood, and took up her severed arm, and shambled the last few steps to the fire, whereupon she at last allowed herself to wholly collapse.

Immediately she could feel it, the spreading warmth and light. In places it hurt as bone snapped together and mended, flesh knitted itself whole, and blood seemed to pour into her from nowhere to again suffuse her veins. In her heart and mind, it was only a gentle, sweet comfort. A bliss transcendent of any she had once known, even if now forgotten. With faculties returning to her, she held the severed arm to its stump and winced as the bonfire flared before her, restoring the limb to its former glory as though sewing the arm back onto a doll.

For a moment she merely sat there, flexing her fingers to ward off the pins and needles, bending her arm at the elbow to wake it up, rotating her shoulder to remember how to use the thing at all. Then she remembered and looked to her left, but the specter was gone. At least, so she thought, for upon turning back she saw the specter had only moved. Or maybe she had forgotten where she sat at all? Anything was possible, near to giving in as she had been.

But there the woman was, sitting with her knees drawn up and hugged close, face buried in them, shivering and shaking for who-knows-why.

"I'll bet you're lost too, aren't you?" she said to the specter, standing up to move closer. She sat down beside the woman, on her right, and continued to watch her. "I'll bet you want to give up too, don't you? You've been beaten and battered, cut up and pulled apart, crushed and incinerated who knows how many times… Just like me…"

Then, much to her surprise, the specter looked up as if she'd heard. Surely this could not be, but there it was. And as she looked up it became clear those hunches were true. The poor thing looked hardly a step away from going hollow, her eyes sunken and black, her skin withered and desiccated, her lips twisted back into a mummified horror-grin.

"You can't give up yet," she said to the specter, and perhaps also to herself. "Look how far we've come. You can't give in, not now, not here. There's fire yet within you…"

Did she… did the specter mouth something back? Yes, she was sure of it.

' _Thank you_ ,' she'd said, right?

"Can you hear me?" she asked suddenly, leaping to her feet, excited without knowing why.

But the specter only shook her head. How, then, did she know to respond?

"If you can't hear me…" she muttered, sinking back to a seat, hope quickly fading again. "How… did you know what I said?"

Again, the specter only shook her head. This time she decided to, very slowly and very deliberately, mouth out her words.

"You… cannot… give… up…" she said. "Be… strong…"

And now, it looked as though the specter did indeed understand her. Those twisted lips managed to draw back just a bit more, and in the flickering firelight they looked to make a genuine smile. A _human_ smile, one full of gratefulness and relief. Seeing such, she could only smile in return. This they shared for a small time as the bones on the bonfire crackled and sputtered away.

"Thank… you…" she said.

The specter looked as though she would respond, but began to grow faint instead. To her horror, she watched as the mysterious woman faded into the dark and fully vanished. She was alone again. Naught but the bonfire remained, its crackling now joined with the shuffling and groaning of the revived hollows all around.

Still, something had come of it. Even if she were now alone—without even the specter for companionship—she found herself revitalized and with renewed purpose. Someone else was still pushing, still pursuing, still refusing to give in. Just like her.

 _Just like her…_

The aches and pains were but phantoms now, nigh intangible as she stood from the comforting flame. She took a short look around to assess her enemies. This time there would be no ambush. This time she would triumph and reach that next fire, hale and whole and without hollowing out. And there, she would await her newfound other to do the same, eagerly watching for her shade to materialize from the flickering glow of the fire.

"You can do it," she said to herself as she readied her rapier. "No." She shook her head. " _We_ can do it…"

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 **A Cinder in the Dark**

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A/N: Maybe we'll make this a thing; me and Adjudicato switching off chapters with Ruby and Weiss until they beat the game. Lol

My favorite part of this is actually two different things: first, how he depicts Ruby in this as a fresh character, still getting her feet wet so to speak, and how meek and hopeless she is. Two: the overwhelming sense of _hope_ she instills in Weiss, which allows her to just get up and keep going. Because, really, that's how I view the Dark Souls series as a whole - picking yourself up from your many (many...) defeats and just keep going, because others are right there suffering with you.

Thanks again, my dude, for the piece, and keep trucking!

Web


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